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‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mistress Cressida.’
    The girl glared at him. ‘I did not ask for your opinion, Sergeant.’ She glanced at Tom. ‘Follow me and we’ll see if Granny believes your story.’ She picked up the lantern and with a swish of her cape, turned and glided back inside.
    Tom clenched his jaw. ‘It’s not a story.’ He hesitated, then made to follow.
    The sergeant grasped him by the collar. ‘You’re lucky, boy. But the Viscountess is a shrewd one. If she suspects you of lying, make no mistake, she’ll call the constable and he’ll throw you into the town gaol.’ He shoved him through thedoorway and in beneath the gatehouse arch. ‘Hurry along now. You don’t want to keep your sweet little cousin waiting.’
    Tom stumbled after the girl, stomach churning. He’d only just got here and already he’d let Mother down. She’d told him to give the prayer book to no one but his uncle. What if this Viscountess person refused to believe him and had him locked up like the sergeant said? What chance would he have of rescuing Father then?
    Stepping through the arch, he found himself in a large courtyard surrounded by high walls studded with rows of candlelit windows and topped by more great stone battlements. In front of him, water splashed from the statue of a man holding a pitchfork into a polished bronze bowl.
    â€˜Over here!’ The girl’s voice rang out above the noise.
    He spun round, but there was no sign of her. If this was some kind of trick . . . He turned back to face the fountain. Then he saw her, a dark shape hovering beneath the shelter of a stone porch.
    She put her hands on her hips. ‘Keep up, or I will have to get the sergeant to escort you after all.’
    He paused, took a deep breath and limped across the cobbles towards her. ‘Where are we going?’
    She frowned. ‘I told you. To see my great-grandmother. Hurry up! It is nearly eight o’clock. She will be taking her supper soon and doesn’t like being interrupted.’ She pushed on the oak door behind her. It swung open with a creak and she disappeared inside.
    Tom followed. A cold dark passage stretched away in front of him, its walls lined with heavy wood-panelling, itsfloor paved with large slabs of stone. His nose pricked at the smell of soot and beeswax.
    â€˜This way.’ The girl led him along the passage before stopping at a fancy metal gate set into a stone arch. She lifted the latch and gestured for him to go through. The room beyond was in shadow, but from the great swoop of the window arches and the echo of his boots on the polished floor, he knew it was big. As big as the nave in St Thomas’s church. Maybe bigger. He glanced about him. A row of dark panels hung on the walls beneath the windows. He guessed they must be portraits, though it was too dark to make out the faces. In between them, sitting on slabs of stone, were a line of carved stags, each with a set of spiked horns and a pair of glittering black eyes.
    â€˜This is the Buck Hall, for obvious reasons.’ The girl pointed at the stags then lifted her arms and spun round on the spot. She seemed to have forgotten he wasn’t to be trusted. She pointed at a bow and quiverful of arrows slung round the neck of the nearest stag. ‘And those’ – she said, sounding particularly pleased with herself – ‘were a gift to my great-grandfather from Good Queen Bess to thank him for the excellent hunting when she was his guest here.’
    Tom’s eyes widened and for a moment, he couldn’t help being impressed. ‘Did you see her? The old Queen, I mean.’ Even though she had persecuted Catholics, he had heard tales of her bravery, how she had rallied the troops when the Spanish Armada was threatening to invade.
    The girl rolled her eyes. ‘No, silly! That was in ninety-one, the year before I was